


Coroana

by roughnecked



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fantasy AU, Slow Burn, also stand-in big brother jesse, and MAKING SHIT UP ABOUT WITCHCRAFT, and then meets her again when shes old hot and tasked with protecting the kingdom w witch purges, immortal witch mercy meets a mortal bby fareeha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8280268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughnecked/pseuds/roughnecked
Summary: Not knowing where her mother goes during the night, Fareeha attempts to follow her into the forest-- and gets lost. During her search for the path, she ends up getting hurt and receiving help from a witch that lives in the woods nearby. Years later, the kingdom has changed. Her mother is dead, and a black mist razes cities. Pharah is a knight underneath the king, who tasks them with dealing with (and defeating) every supernatural being within the kingdom.





	1. Humble beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> ... im rusty. constructive crit appreciated :) thx

\-- 

Frog legs tied to a rope for longevity. A flower blossomed under a half moon. Particular ingredients for a particular stew, set for a newborn in the nearby village. People don't approach Angela for just anything, after all. 

No matter. In a haze of lazy days filled with potions and spells, a witch does not mind solitude. She doesn't really know how long she's been alive, but its certainly been long enough that her reputation with the townships has mixed with legends of her past mishaps. (Or one, perhaps. The black mist still lives, if that can be called living, and her regret only weighs her down more when she hears of those he kills.) Still, a witch that can raise the dead is not particularly popular. It is the deeds of kindness she has done that have stopped her from hanging from the gallows. 

She needs the breast milk of the mother, which she has in a vial beside the pot. For sanity, or something or another; she picks up the vial and-- 

In comes a bird, dive-bombing through the little window of her home and immediately crashing into a shelf covered in vials. The falcon screeches frantically; the wings flap and flap, knock over more ingredients. Angela dives under a table at initial impact, then quickly scrabbles out from underneath it to wave her hands in the air and shout. 

"Stop! STOP! Cut it out!" As if the bird would understand her. It seems to recognize her, at least, because it immediately drops atop her head and grabs her hair in its claws, before attempting to steer her out the door. She bats at it again, but it's relentless-- it knocks her over a table, and then a chair, and almost pulls out half of her scalp before she resigns and starts willingly walking into the forest where it seems to be leading her. 

Once she stops resisting, the bird relaxes. It lets go of her hair (Angela massages her scalp indignantly, momentarily mourning the chunks of hair she'd never get back ) and starts cawing frantically instead, flitting from branch to branch. She tries to turn back once, and it almost gouges her eyes out with an indignant scree. 

Note to Angela: Stop helping out the local wildlife. She thinks they may all be gossips.

The walk is short; soon the bird has started to caw as if it is asking her for a favor, and Angela freezes in place until a glint of metal catches her eye. 

A lump? A corpse? No. 

A girl, she thinks, curled over atop a bed of moss. Her chest, covered with a combination of chainmail and metal, heaves with the weight of it; an outfit completely mismatched, too big, as if a knight had mixed with an archer. A whole new breed of warrior. Her arm is broken at the elbow. 

Beside her, a quiver of arrows has been tossed haphazardly. The fletches of one of the arrows have entangled in her dark hair, the head of it pointing into the forest. Around her, a mess of branches that could have only come from above her; a glance confirms it, for the branches of the oak above her are split and rotten. Had she tried to climb up the tree, not knowing it was dying? 

A girl. A kid, even. The falcon, freshly hatched and still clumsy in flight, caws again pleading. 

"This is her, then?" Angela asks, and holds out a hand to the beast. It studies her cautiously, golden eyes sharp upon hers, before it finally decides she is not dangerous and perches atop her forearm. (The bird digs its claws into her skin ever-so-slightly, a warning. 'Do not break this trust.') 

Angela sinks her knees into the moss underfoot, then freezes. In the pause, the girl has opened her eyes. They are black onyx, an unyielding black that rivals the warm, deep tones of her skin. Eyes that speaks of trouble if Angela so much as shifts. The eyes of a fighter. 

Well, shit. 

She reaches for her spellbook reflexively before she recalls the exact situation she's in, and just how little of a threat a kid with a broken arm poses. That calms her. The falcon, however, ruffles his feathers and caws to draw attention to himself. The archer's (What is her name, even?) eyes follow the sound, then brighten. 

"Raptora." She calls, and the bird caws again, more softly, then caws once more when she heaves up onto her unbroken arm. Her gaze slides back to the Witch. 

"I know of you." Her first words to Angela. Her voice is lilted with a foreign accent. "The necromancer? Did Raptora bring you?" 

Angela sighs with mild reproach, then nods. Necromancer is hardly an 'appropriate' term. She didn't raise the dead. Technically. Throwing that from her mind, she shakes the bird off of her forearm with a great flap of wings and shuffles forward, reaching into the her bag to whip out the salves and potions she concocts specifically for wanderers such as these. Hardly does she need more accusations of black magic towards her, but especially not from foreign-looking oddities who tumble from trees in the forest. Best she tends to the wounds and sends her on her way. 

"Witch is fine. Angela, however, is better." She corrects. "Your bird whipped up quite the storm in my home to get my attention." 

A cork pops. Angela leans in, potion in hand, ready to tilt open her mouth and drip the salve in-- but she never manages. The archer immediately startles with the proximity, startling upwards into a crouch and promptly clutching her arm with a hiss of pain. The falcon screeches. 

"Move back!" She spits through her gritted teeth. The arrow stays entangled in her hair, dangling from the strands, body language the same as a wounded animal with shaking shoulders. Dirt crusts the side of her face, but does nothing to hide the knives she throws with those black eyes.

"It's a salve, to help with the pain. It's harmless." She tries. A headache begins to pulse behind her eyes, likely from the beating her hair had gotten. The kid spits again. "Meant to prevent infection. Fever. I'm not going to hurt you." 

The kid still doesn't budge; their eyes lock. Jet black bears into Angela's own blue, only to break away when the falcon lets out another aggravated screech-- this time directed towards their owner. She looks away, frowning, but in the pause her expression seems to turn sheepish. Finally, she outstretches a hand. 

"Thank you." Angela presses the bottle into her hand. She unceremoniously pours the mixture down her throat, then coughs and wipes the residue off with knobbled hands. Her limbs are all too long for her body. A kid. When she looks back at Angela, she offers an expression less angry than before. 

"What's your name?"  
"Fareeha."

Angela forgoes trying to repeat it. She'll inevitably mess up the pronunciation. Instead, she presents both hands, palms up, and leans in. 

"Would you let me treat you?"


	2. THIS IS THE SECOND CHAPTER

Walking back to her cabin with an injured girl wasn’t exactly Angela’s plan for the day. Still, it’s not entirely unpleasant. The girl doesn’t complain past the occasional ‘tsk’ of pain, and her bird scouts ahead and crows to keep away any wild animals that might cause trouble. Well-trained. She wonders if Fareeha had taught it that, or if she just had a natural affinity for the creature.

Either is impressive. What’s  _ also _ impressive is how well the child seems to tread amongst roots and leaves, avoiding the little creatures that most people ignore. She watches as she carefully sidesteps a green beetle the size of her thumb, then tip-toes over a sleeping snake. No fear. Her arm, wrapped in a sling Angela tore off of the bottom of her cloak, sits still and contained.

“Do you often tread these woods?” Angela tries. She pushes aside a leafier branch, and Fareeha ducks under it gracefully.

“Mm.”

“Is that… a yes?”

“Every night.” Fareeha’s fingers run against the bark of a tree and get coated with a sticky sap. Sweet stuff when boiled, but otherwise just messy. She presses her fingertips together, then watches the strings that cling to either digit when she pulls them apart. “Are you kidnapping me?” She says conversationally. Angela almost trips over a root, but manages to catch herself in time to hear the falcon crow mockingly.  Fareeha looks at her, giggles, then wipes the sap onto her sling and holds her hand out perpendicular instead. Raptora lands atop her arm with a quiet rush of feathers. “I’m kidding, you know. My mom’s not a witch, but she’s close enough; there are almost as many rumors about her kidnapping kids as there are about you.”

The cottage appears once Angela gestures past a final stretch of trees, and Fareeha’s sharp gaze turns to it instead. It’s an intense look for someone so young. Mercy can imagine how terrifying she’ll be when she’s older.

Not that that’s Angela’s main concern. Nope. That rests entirely on this new-found accusation of ‘child kidnapping’ that she’d been entirely unaware of. She shakes her head.

“Rumors,” She sighs as she pushes open the front door, “are the bane of witches and non-witches alike. Wait near the door while I fix up the supplies, would you?”

Fareeha nods like she understands, then immediately disobeys by walking over to the shelf of perishables to her left. It’s filled, back to back and top to bottom with jars, which are in turn filled with… questionable things. Eyes and legs of various insects or amphibians, flowers and mosses. Even swamp waters from certain periods of time. Angela can’t particularly blame her for being curious, though she doesn’t trust the falcon. It stares at a pickled rat with beady eyes.

No matter. Angela walks over to the same shelf and attempts to give Fareeha a friendly pat on the head before she takes the meager supplies she needs. A broken arm is hardly anything to sweat over. She’s cured much, much worse. A handful of peony petals, the skinned bark of a hazel tree; she dumps them in the pot and follows it up with a careful measurement of beetle legs.

Fareeha takes a dusty jar in her hand, then turns to look at the witch once more. In this light, she can note every scratch and dent in the plate-armor that protects her heart; her chainmail is missing one-too-many a link to be truly effective. Her boots look too big.

This is no archer, she thinks. This is a kid.

“Jesse told me that you get your powers by eating pretty girls.” Fareeha smiles and shakes the jar, displacing Raptora so that it beats upwards with a great sweep of wings and moves to rest atop a bookshelf instead. The materials inside swirl as Angela looks up with a furrowed brow.

“This Jesse sounds like an idiot.” She retorts, then grabs a bundle of herbs to throw into the pot. “Do they tell you that I drink blood and bleed soups while they’re at it?”

Fareeha shrugs, then turns and replaces the jar in its rightful space. Her eyes start to trace the rest of the space, then, finding nothing of interest, lock onto her. Angela gestures to the pot.

“You can come and see what I’m doing, you know.”

A spark of interest. She shuffles forward and grips the base of the cauldron (if it can be called that, for it’s really just a pewter pot she’d bought from the market.) “Do I drink it?”

“No.” Mercy takes a hold of her by the shoulder and leans her over the cauldron, then begins to carefully unwind the sling. Fareeha’s happy expression immediately contorts with the motion; she offers a noise of sympathy but continues. When it’s unwrapped, Angela straightens the arm out as best as she can, pauses to let Fareeha let out a small sob, and begins to lower it into the bath. “I know it hurts, but you must keep it under the surface of. Trust me, okay?”

Fareeha grits her teeth and nods. The falcon caws anxiously from its perch as the entire brew begins to bubble around her, and Angela tut-tuts with a smile.

“Maybe this will teach you to check a tree for rot before you climb it in the woods, no?”

“Nope.” Fareeha replies. She can see the muscles on her thin arms flexing as she begins to move and twist her arm in the brew. “If it happens again, I’ll just come back here.”  
  
“That’s _hardly_ reasonable.”

 

The bubbling stops. Fareeha begins to slow extract her arm, dripping petals from the mail. It smells nice enough, but it dyes the skin-- her dark skin is tinged with the slightest hint of green. She opens her fingers, closes them, then curls the fingernails into her palm. All healed. 

Her gaze flits to the side sheepishly. “Thanks anyways.” 

“It’s… nothing.” Angela replies automatically. A potion for mending bones is hardly difficult-- she rarely charges a fee for it. She wouldn’t in this case, regardless. Turning away from the girl, she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a yellow vial of antiseptics. “I suppose you’ll be going out every night despite this, right? You shouldn’t rely on my help, even if your bird insists otherwise.” Filthy gossip. 

Fareeha lets out another noncommittal “Mm,” sound. Angela assumes she couples it with a nod, because she hears something clacking around. Maybe the beads in her hair. “Can I come and visit you, at least?”

With that, Angela freezes. She hasn’t entertained the thought of visitors in years, most people being too afraid to approach her unless they needed her help. She got her fill of social interaction at the market, simply speaking to the vendors that ran their stalls. Inviting a guest back-- and a young one, at that, could only spark more trouble. Fareeha might be labeled as an apprentice. Ostracized.

But she’s just a girl. She might be hurt worse than a simple broken arm if she continues this trend of night-time exploration.

“I’d like that.” Angela decides, and turns back. “But it’s time for you to get home now. Come on. I’ll walk you to the path.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> srry for the delay :) reviews are super motivating and help me write stuff faster so if u like it, please drop me one!


	3. Man at Arms

It takes only two months.

 

_Two months._

 

Two months for Raptora to swoop back through her windows with a shrill screech, which Angela initially assumes is just the normal way the bird greets people. It lands atop the wooden frame and flap-flaps it wings with great gusto.

 “Hullo.” She tries. It screeches again, and then forgoes the pleasantries entirely to swoop into the room and promptly grab up the bag she’d had on her when she’d found Fareeha. It’s empty, of course, but the message is clear. She walks over and extracts it from it’s great claws, then sighs.

 “Is she hurt again?” The bird clicks its great yellow beak at her, then roosts once more. “Is…  Is it grave?” Two clicks. None of this makes sense, of course. She opens up a drawer and grabs a random handful of supplies to shove into it, then turns to take 3 vials of numbing solutions. If it’s a leg this time, she _swears--_

 Raptora extends a wing and knocks a flowerpot off of her sill. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” Angela replies, and bustles her way out of the door. The bird alights soon after and sails to the nearest tree, where it begins the slow hop to leading Angela to where Fareeha is.

 

She really should try to charge at this rate.

 

Somewhere in the distance, she starts to hear someone calling her name. “Miss Angela!” It’s definitely Fareeha. What isn’t Fareeha, however, is the baritone sobbing that comes alongside her calls. They weren’t even that far from her home.

 “I’m here! Stay put!” She shouts back, and takes off on a sprint.

 She spots the red cloak first.

 She wishes that was the only thing she’d spotted.

  
Fareeha is carrying a boy over one of her slight shoulders, her knees wobbling with the weight of him. Angela registers a flash of white teeth, an ostentatious set of chaps, and more importantly-- a swollen arm, purpled and ugly and lined with a row of too-even teeth marks.

 “What happened?” She says. Her arm slides underneath the boy (a teenage one, if she assumes correctly) to help support him, and Fareeha wipes at her eyes when the pressure frees up. The witch realizes she’d been crying.

 “W-we were just trying to set up t-traps-- to help out  the village, that’s all. His arm got c-caught, and...”

 Red cloak slumps his weight onto Angela, and she plants her feet and heaves to support him. Fareeha has to be strong as hell, if she’d carried him at all. “Right.” She twists her gaze to exam the arm she’s supporting him with. “I think I get the message.”

 The arm in question looks worse up close. It’s already leaking out some sort of pus, rotting around the outsides of the slits the trap had cut into the skin. Angela knows this poison, and she also knows that it’s certainly not for animals. It’s lethal once it spreads.

 She realizes, very suddenly, exactly what she has to do.

 “Who is this exactly, Fareeha?”

 “Jesse.”

 “The Jesse that told you I eat pretty girls?” She retorts. Fareeha sniffs and looks away. Angela chooses not to press the subject. Instead, she lays him down right there and then, and looks up to the little archer with a particularly sharp gaze. “You should turn around, okay? Don’t look, whatever you hear.”

 “What?” She asks, paling. Angela spares her no second glance, though. She’s already reaching for her spellbook, flipping through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for. A spell to stop rot and fester-- often in a very permanent way. She’s going to have to cut off the arm.

 This is definitely not going to help her reputation with the townspeople.

 Fareeha, seeing that she means business, turns around and covers her eyes with both hands. The witch almost feels bad for her. Almost. She feels worse for whatever fetid adults had made _kids_ travel out into the woods to unknowingly place witch traps. She sighs and begins the incantation-- ‘begins’ being the key word, considering the boy underneath her has finally decided to wake up.

 And boy, does he wake up with a bang.

 “Th’ HELL?” He cries out, shooting upwards with a heaving chest. His head snaps until he spots the back of Fareeha’s form, and he drops over on the side of him and grabs her ankle with a solid shake. “Reeha, y’gotta get outta here! There’s a damn witch!” He shouts. Angela opens her mouth to attempt to comfort him, but Fareeha cuts her off.

 “No! No, Jesse! She’s nice! She helped me!”

 “Witches ain’t nice! They’re evil! They’ll-- eugh!” He cuts himself off as Angela forcefully grabs onto his bad arm. His stare is positively reproachful, but she’s gotten worse from the bird. And from Fareeha herself. Really, he has to step it up.

 She reaches into her bag with her other hand, digs out one of her infamous blue vials, and pours it out. As the potion takes effect and Jesse slackens, her eyes meet Fareehas.

 “I suppose arm injuries run in the family.” She tries with a smile. Fareeha’s expression contorts into mild disgust.

 Jesse, on the other hand, looks as if he’s experiencing his own personal nightmare. Angela’s surprised he hasn’t tried kicking, or punching, or just going into a right-proper freak out. Maybe he hasn’t because Fareeha is keeping his gaze steadily.

 His hand retracts and he rolls back onto his back. She notes that he’s attempting to grow a beard-- and that he could sincerely use a haircut. His skin is dark, but lighter than Fareeha’s. From appearance alone, she wouldn’t assume they were siblings-- and maybe they aren’t.

 But when the little archer drops to her knees and wraps her arms around his shoulders, she figures they might as well be.

 “Right.” He says. “Figures I’da gone and messed somethin’ up in front of ya, huh? Don’t tell Ana or she’ll have my ear.”

 ‘Ana’ is a name Angela remembers. She catalogues it in her mind for later, and sits back on her knees. Fareeha is patting Jesse’s face, shaking her head.

  
“No! No, I won’t tell Ummi, okay?”

 

He nods, offering her a smile. Trying to comfort her, most likely. Comfort doesn’t stop the discoloration from creeping up his arms, though. Angela clears her throat once more, then readjusts her spellbook.

 “As sweet as this is, Fareeha called me to help you. Shall we save the hugging for after I deal with this?”

  
Jesse glances over, frowning. She notes, distantly, that there’s a horribly tacky hat strewn to the side. The type of thing a hunter would wear. “Deal with what? --And what’s it gonna cost? I know witches don’t do this kinda stuff for free.” He replies.

  
Angela tries to reign in her twitching brow. At least he’s smart. Asking questions is not something most people bother to do. “Deal with the poison in your arm, _before_ it spreads to your heart. Consider this a favor.”

Jesse pales. “How?”

 Angela clicks her nails against the hard cover of the book. “ _Removal_ , of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up...... EXPOSITION
> 
> con crit welcome and appreciated as always


	4. ? ? ?

Angela has done it before.

 

Sorta.

 

A while back, she’d made arrangements with the Watchers. She would heal and help them, and they would politely ignore her little place in the woods-- and when they brought her a foreign prince with his guts wrapped around him like a bow-tie, she’d been told to fix him. So she did.

 

Again… _ sorta. _

 

She doesn’t know where he is anymore, the man who sprouts plants from his limbs and wears bark like plated armor. She knows that he’s not human anymore, but not entirely magical either. A mix of sorts. Last she heard, he was unhappily helping the Watchers in their endeavor to root out all unwanted magical life. This is easier.

It’s not a whole body. It’s just an arm. Jesse is not happy about it, but Angela is more than confident that she can get him working good as new. A magical arm doesn’t make the man, after all. It’s the details she’s worried about.

First, the environment is less than comforting. It’s the middle of the damn woods, after all.  Little Fareeha is staring wide-eyed at Angela, her grip around Jesse’s neck tightening at her words. “Re…moval?” She tries. Her voice stutters halfway through. Jesse’s tanned skin has gone a weird ashen, green color.

“Removal.” Angela reaffirms. She licks the tips of her fingers and searches for the page once more. “And the more that you post-pone it, the more I’ll have to take.”

As of now, she assumes that it’ll be from around the elbow downwards. He’ll be able to articulate, of course. Maybe even better than before-- magic tends to do that. He might not be able to hide the fact that was once flesh is now comprised of plant matter and witchery, though.

 

Perhaps being so clinical about it is not the best way to go about this.

  
“I’ll replace it with something better.” She promises, and she allows her face to soften. The effect that has on Fareeha is immediate: she slackens her grip on Jesse and nods.

Jesse is not nearly as comforted. The brunette clenches his jaw so tightly that the cordons in his neck stand at attention, his gaze steadily kept on the witch. He’s scared. That’s very, very reasonable.

“Better?” He manages to slip out between his gritted teeth.  Angela clicks her tongue instead of replying, and begins by dutifully knocking Jesse out with a short spell.

The regeneration spell is stuttered and ancient, the words unintelligible unless heard by another witch. The visual of it is immediate. Slowly but steadily, his flesh begins to separate in layers and snap off-- the skin, then the muscles, then the tendons disintegrate into nothing in a steady order. She glances upwards to make sure Fareeha isn’t looking, then continues.

The bones crack and crunch, one by one. (First the radius, then the ulna. It’s always in this order.)

 

Finally, they fall away. The stump looks raw, but it doesn’t bleed.

 

From the ground beneath him, the grass begins to grow steadily upwards and curl in upon itself. Angela pats the ground around them and feels for twigs and stones. When she finds enough, she arranges them vaguely in the shape of a hand, and the grass begins to form and shape around them. The first sign of flexing begins.

“You can look now.” Angela says. Fareeha twists tentatively, then yelps. Some ways away, Raptora hoots softly.

Where his hand used to be is a replica held together by strings of magic. The twigs, still forming into fingers, curl into the palm. A test. When they don’t twitch, Angela knows she’s had a successful replacement.

“Is that… is it permanent?” Fareeha looks sick as well now. She reaches a delicate hand over and runs it along the criss-crossing plants, then stares up at Angela with a mix of admiration and fear. “Can he still use it?”

Angela nods, and snaps her book closed. “Just the same. The only difference is appearance-- but he’s mostly human. A little magic won’t alienate him.”

Fareeha presses her lips together like she isn’t too sure. “Can all witches do things like this?”

 

She bites at a piece of skin that hangs off of her thumb. “No.”

  
“Then why do you know how to do it?”

 

The book is slid into the plain bag, and Angela toys idly with the clasp. Jesse groans, but doesn’t wake up quite yet. She sighs.

“Tell me, Fareeha. Is there anything you like to do?”

She shrugs. “I suppose so. I like climbing quite a bit. I’m good at it.”

Angela tilts her head fondly and smiles. “Right. You look like you’d be good at climbing, as well-- you’re born with the right tools for it. Two arms. Two legs.”

Fareeha giggles, and Angela forges onwards.

“You’re better at climbing than other people because you enjoy it. I’m better at… healing, let’s say, because I enjoy it as well. Every witch is capable of this type of magic, just like every human is capable of climbing. It’s just a matter of motivation.”

Fareeha nods, then looks back to Jesse. His brows are drawn but otherwise, he’s still asleep. Another good job on Angela’s part. She brushes the hair back off of his forehead and sighs.

 

“Ummi is really, really going to be mad about this.”

 

“Your mother?”

  
Another nod. “She’ll have wanted me to go to her first. She’s good with this stuff. Um. Poisons. She’s an alchemist.”

Angela doesn’t bother to tell her that alchemy is what created that toxin as well. She leans over and places a hand atop Fareeha’s shoulder, then grips it gently.

“I’m sure she’ll understand when she sees him alive.”

Jesse, finally rousing, cracks open an eye. Angela has to appreciate his form. He’s still young enough, but undoubtedly going to age into a tower of a man. His shoulders are broad and well-built, despite the remnants of puberty sloping them downwards; hair sprouts unevenly from a strong chin. He might be 19 if her guess is right. 20. “S’it over?” He rumbles.

“Ah-ah!” Angela tuts. “You shouldn’t try to sit up so quickly. Tell me if you can move the fingers, will you?”

Jesse sucks in a short breath of air, but follows her instructions. After he lurches upwards, he finally lifts his new arm and takes a look at it.

It really is fine work.

The thick fingers curl inwards easily, even naturally. He flicks his tongue out to wet his lips and then runs the fingers of his flesh hand across the crossed leaves.

A long silence stretches out as he takes inventory of his hand. Finally, he looks up.

 

“This… hand. It ain’t going to start rotting on me, is it?”

 

“Not until _you_ start rotting.”

 

Jesse grimaces at the imagery, then grits his teeth once more. Finally, he switches his focus to Angela. “Well, it’s done with,” he spits. “Guess all that’s left is t’deal with it.”

  
Angela wonders just exactly Fareeha had gotten her into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the scariest part of this story  
> is that we was you!  
> and you became skeleton  
> AND WROTE THIS
> 
> follow me on twitter @sheimiski and tell me how ur likin the story :')


	5. Family Friendly

Angela sees her again in the village, during the ugliest autumn in years. The ground is covered in yellow and wet leaves; the air is cool but not cold enough, still sticky with the dredges of remaining heat of summer and dry. In short, it’s awful.

Fareeha’s walking hand-in-hand with Jesse, shoulders covered by a lovingly stitched blue shawl. She pulls him along almost bodily, pointing out a store in front of them. A confectionery! The store presents little cakes and sweets, decorated roughly but with love. She gapes at them and then nudges Jesse with an elbow.

He sighs and pulls out a coin purse. Angela has to cover her mouth to stop from laughing.

In her own basket, Angela’s gotten quite the surplus of supplies to last her the winter-- for potions and foods alike. Her store of dried fruits and meats will only last her so long, after all, and she’s not too keen on hunting after some past incidents.

Fareeha puts the bun she’d selected into her mouth as Jesse dutifully counts out coins. He’s picked out something sticky and covered in syrup from what Angela can see; it’s a struggle to get it off of the countertop. His new arm, at the very least, seems dexterous enough. The seller gives it an odd glance but doesn’t mention it, and he’s able to handle the slight coins without it twitching or anything.

Angela, content knowing Fareeha is happy and safe, turns to leave with her basket.

It doesn’t work, of course.

“Hey! Miss Angela!” She hears distantly, and twisting to look reveals a wildly waving Fareeha.

She waves back over the distance between them. Fareeha, with sweet bun in tow, takes a hold of Jesse and begins dragging him over to where Angela dutifully waits and adjusts her basket.

“How’d you know it was me?” Angela asks politely. She’s not exactly dressed vibrantly, whereas Fareeha’s blue cloak stands out like a beacon. Fareeha simply taps the side of her nose, then reaches up to tug at one of Angela’s blonde locks.

“No one has hair like you!” She lets go, and then gestures at her own hair. Then Jesse’s. Angela can’t particularly disagree-- blonde hair is exceedingly rare in these parts especially.

“I see.” Angela smiles in return, and adds “Hello, Jesse,” as an afterthought. He nods at her, then turns his gaze away. Still trusting as always. “Are you two shopping alone today?”

“Yep!” Fareeha says around another bite of her sweet bun. “Ummi wanted us to pick up some things for soup tonight, since she’s having guests. An old King’s guard! He’s super cool!”

“And loud.” Jesse adds in with a smile. Angela sees him nudging Fareeha with an elbow. “The man’s about 7 feet tall and weighs more than a boar. I hear he lost his eye fightin’ off a bear or two.”

“The  _ coolest. _ ” Fareeha nods firmly.

Angela giggles. “I’m sure you’ll have fun, then. Jesse, how is the arm?”

His expression falters then, brows twitching inwards. His fingers twitch. “It’s fine.” He lifts it, palm facing upwards, and rotates it at the wrist. “Don’t _ feel _ any different, if that’s what yer askin’. Can’t say I love the looks I get for it.”

“ _ He hates it. _ ” Fareeha cups her mouth and dramatically stage whispers. Jesse elbows her again, this time not so gently, and she snorts.

“It’s not that I  _ hate _ it-- it’s just weird. Ain’t used to seein’ plants when I look down.” He corrects. Fareeha opens her mouth again, and Jesse quickly locks her into a headlock and clamps a hand down atop her head. “Better than bein’ dead, right?”

She gives a muffled yelp, and he releases her.

Angela wonders if they’re cousins. Adoptive siblings? They have the type of dynamic that doesn’t just happen, especially when the age difference between them is so different. Not to mention their accents come from different counties entirely. Would asking be impolite?

“Better than being dead, yes…” Angela replies, trailing off. “Say… how are you two related?”

Fareeha shrugs. “My mom is real good friends with his… uh.”

“Not dad.” Jesse interjects.

“--His  _ kinda _ dad. Mister Gabe is always at our place, so Jesse comes along.” Fareeha finishes off her sweet bun, and claps her hands together in front of her little blue shawl. “Jesse doesn’t have many friends.”

“Hey now!” He snorts, and ruffles her hair until it’s a disaster. “I got loads of friends, thank you very much! Last time I take  _ you _ out to get sweet buns.”

Angela covers her mouth politely as she laughs, basking in the warmth these two exude. She’d gotten too used to being alone, she realizes-- social interaction is nice enough when it isn’t solely focused around herself, and her powers. Fareeha looks at her and offers a smile back.

“What about you? I didn’t know witches went to the village shops.”

“Most don’t.” Angela replies earnestly. She adjusts the basket in her hands to help redistribute the weight, and Jesse reaches over and grasps the handle-- she realizes he’s silently offering to carry her for it. She nods gracefully, passes it over,  then continues. “But I help out quite a few people in the village, so I suppose I get a pass.”

“Help out with what?” Jesse asks, chin tilting up and back as he appraises her. “Can’t imagine it’d involve heavy lifting.”

The witch rolls her eyes in good humor. “Fertility treatments, boils and bruises, the occasional broken bone. A surprising amount of very, very sick babies. You’d be surprised at what kids are allowed to put in their mouths these days.”

Fareeha barks out a laugh and Jesse grins wide as hell, adjusting his tacky little hat. “Hear that, ‘Reeha? Told ya eating dirt was a bad idea.”

“You dared me to do it!”

He snorts-- and again,  it’s oddly charming. Angela can see why people would be drawn to them in a visceral sort of way: he’s got charisma oozing out of him, and Fareeha’s the same. The two of them are quite the intimidating pair.

In the pause, Fareeha licks her fingertips to clean off any remaining honey and then frowns at the crumbs on her chest. She swipes a couple off, and Jesse flicks one she missed off to the ground.

Noting the care they both take with it, Angela leans down and tugs at the edge of the blue fabric. “Say, this cloak. Isn’t royal blue a pretty expensive dye to make?”

“Yep!” Fareeha’s chin raises proudly, and Jesse crosses his arm. “Gabe made it for me. He makes most of my clothes, you know?”

She nods, then looks over at Jesse-- and the red strap of cloth around his shoulders. It might’ve been nice, once, but it looks as if it might’ve been caught in a couple too many branches. “And did he make that as well?”

“Right he did. Says it’s good for keepin’ warm in the winter.”

“Including the embroidery?”

He shrugs, but his flesh hand drifts upwards to stroke the fabric lovingly. “S’pose so. Been a while since I’ve had it. Guess he just likes spoiling people.”

Angela catalogues him in her brain as well, beginning to get a vague idea as to whom Gabe and Ana might just be. She hasn’t dealt with them, no-- but the traits are similar enough. Especially Ana, the alchemist-- Fareeha’s mother. Watchers.

She assumes they’re Watchers, anyways. The issue is more blurry than she cares to admit, so she doesn’t dwell on it. Her most face-to-face interaction with the Watchers was within the knightly figure of Jack, whom liked to ride up to her little cottage on an overly tired white horse and talk big and formal. A good guy in theory, yes, but perhaps a bit too posed. There also stood the issue of him formally standing against most, if not all magical creatures.

Fareeha doesn’t know what her mother is, obviously. She wouldn’t be so friendly with Angela if she did-- and she’s too young for things like this, regardless. She’s not so sure about Jesse.

She looks at him critically. In Angela’s pause, he’s taken to staring at a pretty girl walking by with an eyebrow appreciatively cocked. She can’t assume he’s anything but a typical 19 year old boy. But she’s been wrong before.

Angela leans over and braces her hands on her knees, a smile spreading across her features. “Say, Fareeha, would you mind if I came shopping with you guys? I’d love to meet your mother-- Miss… Ana, you said?”

Fareeha looks to Jesse for permission with a smile on her face, and though he hesitates, he nods awkwardly. “Just don’t plan on stayin’ too long, if that’s alright with you. She tends to get pretty frantic with people over, so big on makin’ a good impression. She won’t even let Fareeha sit in on the dinners.”

Angela cocks her head to the side, then straightens. Fareeha isn’t allowed to sit in. She’s unaware of what her mother does, isn’t she? She looks at Jesse once more, and intertwines her fingers with a gentle smile. “I’d just like to say hello.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *writing a pharmercy fic*  
> also me: *4004040404040 chapters on exposition for fareeha and jesses childhood happiness with ana as jesses stand-in mom because i fully believe that their history is absolutely adorable and i want more doting big brother jesse in my life*


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